the art of getting us from there to here
by FinnFiona
Summary: 'But as you shift your weight away—never tearing your eyes from her, never that—she surprises you one more time.' Missing D/E scene between 3x08 and 3x09.


**Author's Note: I know this has probably been overdone, but that scene at the end of _Ordinary People_ is one of my favorites from the season (and planted a few seeds and images in my mind that I wanted to 'see' played out). Plus, it seemed like a good way to brush the writing rust off. I hope you'll indulge me.**

**Also, for those of you who might have been hoping for an update to _You Give Yourself Away_—I promise to get back to it soon (in fact, oneshots like this are partly me working my way back to that story), and am so sorry to have kept you all waiting this long. It was never my intention, but I did get hit by a severe lack of time and inspiration. A double whammy if there ever was one.**

**Anyhow—enough from me on that score; I hope you'll enjoy this little diversion, and please do take a moment to let me know what you think.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own TVD, but mummy says it's nice to share, right?**

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><p>You've been lying here for hours now, next to her. And you should go.<p>

You _should_ have left when she tugged at the duvet—you can take a hint, after all, you just don't always pay much attention to them. Maybe you thought you deserved an angry outburst for your actions, a few extra punches to make this dance easier. Or maybe you're just selfish—wanted the absolution of confession, a little pat on the head and an _on-your-way_.

But you weren't _just_ trying to be difficult—not this time. Weren't _just_ trying to get a rise out of her, weren't _just _trying to push her away by pulling as hard as you can.

Not after today, no. Not after the past few months, either.

Defense mechanisms and a stubborn will can only get you so far.

No, you were looking for her to answer all of your questions, were secretly desperate for her to tether you back to hope, were expecting her to guide you down the right path like Dorothy setting bravely out on the Yellow Brick Road.

_Would that make you the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, or the Cowardly Lion? _Brains, heart, or courage—honestly, you're not sure which to ask the Wizard for first. For you, you fear they all seem in short supply.

But she never does what you expect her to do. It kills you every time, yet you love her for it anyway. And tonight… tonight she took the biggest weight she could find and put it on your well-chipped shoulders, and still somehow managed to make you feel like you weren't carrying that burden alone.

You wonder if you've ever been able to do that for her... Because you're not sure you've ever made anything easier.

And could she even be right? Are you going to save your brother? Are you going to bring Stefan back from the edge like you promised, are you going to be what he needs to keep from falling further into the abyss?

_And if she's right…_ if she's right, _can_ you save him?

And how?

How can you possibly be the toehold that restores your brother's humanity when you're barely holding onto your own?

_This girl_, you think as she shifts in her sleep. She helps. Helps you hold on. More than she'll ever understand.

But somewhere you know she's not the only thing. You can't look at it directly, that truth that's too old to be weak, too battered to be strong. But the razor-thin line, the thickest rope—the spider's silk, the steel wire—whatever it is that anchors you and Stefan together, whatever neither of you have ever been able to break no matter how many cracks rise to the surface… don't the scales only balance with one brother left standing while the other crumbles into dust?

You told him you wanted him to remember what freedom felt like.

You're starting to realize that freedom might be the most expensive thing in the world that doesn't cost any money.

If only your grand plan came with an insurance policy, some certainty that you know what your brother will do once you give him what he wants. You think he'll come back to her. You _think_.

It's what you would do.

Have done.

Will always do.

But her words are hanging in front of you, slipping through your fingers, sowing the seeds of doubt at an alarming rate even as the tie you to her like a buoy in the raging ocean. Now you're not so sure about _anything_, much less Stefan.

And no matter what she says, you can't believe _you're_ enough to save anyone…

_Really_, you should go.

Now.

Leave her to the peace of sleep for a few more hours, protect her from the devil's see-saw of thoughts racing through your mind… even if watching her breathe—_in-and-out_, _in-and-out_, _in-and-out_—is just about the only thing that sounds like sanity.

You shouldn't stay here, can't stay here, have made up your mind to slip away into the night where you belong. But as you shift your weight away—never tearing your eyes from her, never that—she surprises you one more time.

Her hand slides out over the cool sheet, a subconscious movement across the space that separates you—the few inches that might as well have been the grandest of canyons now bridged by the feeling of her fingertips on the back of your hand.

You stare at them—those small, charged points of contact—like the lifeline you've been waiting for your whole life and never really thought you'd get, still don't think you'll get to hold onto for very long.

You should go. But you won't. You'll hold the breath you'll never need as you slip your palm under her outstretched fingers. You'll swallow hard as she twines her hand in yours. You'll mimic the smallest smile that flits across her sleeping features, a trace of melancholy on your own lips.

You'll stay, and hope for enough.

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><p>Your eyes flutter open, adjust slowly to the predawn light that bathes everything in a wash of grey. Your eyes squeeze <em>shut<em>when you recognize the dark form laying next to you.

_Damon_.

Damon Salvatore. Sleeping next to you. Right where you left him.

Your heart skips a beat, stomach constricts. But not out of fear or anger, or even that much surprise. Just an involuntary reaction to trying to clamp down on the realization that you're _not_ any of those things. That you're heartbreakingly glad he's there. Grateful.

Because you feel safe.

Feel cared for...

Because it's the first time in a long time that you haven't woken up in the middle of the night, heart racing, breath catching. Because it's a rare morning that you haven't lain awake, watching the minutes tick by before your alarm buzzes unnecessarily.

And no, no it's not because someone, _anyone_, was there beside you as you dreamt. Not a placeholder, or a substitute. It's because it was him.

Your eyes still resolutely closed, you don't think you're ready to face him with these admissions—even if they're tucked safely away inside your heart.

You wonder if he's awake, if he knows you're no longer sleeping.

But he's a vampire. Of course he knows.

When you finally work up the courage to open your eyes again, it's crystal-clear blue that meets you instead of the grey gloom.

"Mornin,'" he says softly, the smirk playing lazily at the corners of his mouth. But his eyes hold such doubt and turbulence and apprehension that you can't be fooled by the smooth bravado.

"I thought you would've left," is all you trust yourself to say.

"I was going to."

It's not really an answer, but the glance you catch him making is—it's a glance that guides you to the sight of fingers intertwined. _Your_ fingers and _his_ fingers. Somehow you know it wasn't him that put them there.

It's hard not to notice how much they look like they belong there, either. Looped together like that.

But this is a thought that scares you half to death, and you can't help but withdraw your hand, place it protectively under your cheek, tucked into your pillow. Though you give his fingers a gentle squeeze first, because it suddenly seems very important that he know you aren't upset.

He smiles sadly at you anyway.

"Why didn't you?" you ask after too long a pause. "Leave, I mean."

He doesn't answer right away.

_I promise you, I will never leave you again._

"Do you want me to go?" he asks at last.

It's just a question, not even challenging like he might have been. No hidden agenda or knowing look. Just quiet. Just an honest offer. But damned if he doesn't _always_ make you confront the truth behind the question anyway, even when he's hardly even trying.

So you shake your head, the smallest movement possible, shake your head no.

_No. Don't leave me._

His lips twitch and he can't hide the gratitude in his eyes.

And in that moment, it's painfully obvious how much he loves you. _Loves_ you. How much you know he loves his brother, too.

As your realizations about Stefan—about Rebekah—about mothers and children—come creeping back, you wonder how you could've been so wrong about love for so long. How you could've failed to see that you and him, you love the same way.

Hard, and fierce, and without looking back.

It's not an accident, that instinct. But you never bothered to notice that the circumstances of your young life aren't so far removed from the earliest twists and turns in his own path.

"Stefan never really talks about your mother," you say, apropos of nothing except the speeding train of thoughts rumbling, scattered through your mind. Trying to make sense of it all without looking at anything too uncomfortable, too difficult.

The slightest frown creases his brow, but he doesn't ask where your question came from. Only answers, "Stefan doesn't remember her."

You think you've said the wrong thing, but you're into it now. "He remembers what you told him," you offer, one story you _have_ heard floating back, a story of a beautiful woman singing at the piano for hours and hours and hours until her voice was raspy and her fingers stiff.

Damon's frown only deepens as he pushes himself up, sits pensively against the headboard. You join him there, careful to keep your distance, to be patient.

"He should've known her," Damon responds at last, not looking at you. "I had to tell him something. Father wasn't going to..."

This makes your heart hurt with a persistent ache. You know better by now than to reach out for him, know that more must have happened yesterday than you realized to make him let his guard down even this much.

"You must have been so _young_," you whisper, staring off into the distance. Your eye catches on the portrait of your parents that you keep on the dresser, you wonder how much more lost you'd be if your mom had been taken from you at... What? Seven? Eight? "I don't know what I would've done—Jeremy and I, if we had..." you can hardly even finish the thought. The ache in your chest grows, and you bite your lip to keep from slipping too far down the rabbit hole.

Funny how loss starts to feel too possible, too real after awhile, but you never really get used to the idea.

He's managed to pull himself out of whatever dark fissure he was falling down long enough to really look at you. "Hey..." he says slowly, "you would've done fine. Better than I did, probably."

You just shake your head with a bitter half-smile.

"What's this all about?" he asks, slow and careful, though he already knows.

It's all too real. Too hard.

"I don't know, Damon," you whisper, though you know it too.

It just happens over and over again. Too many of the same mistakes. Too much disappointment.

You learned a long time ago that life rarely works out the way you want it to, the way you expect. Still, you always believed that no matter what happened, in the end it would be okay. _You _would be okay.

You have to have hope. _Have _to.

But it's just getting harder and harder to hold onto that belief. Hope is a fragile thing, even if it makes you strong when you have it. Too many more curveballs and you're afraid you'll lose it, you'll be saying the words but the hope will be gone. And that scares you most of all.

"So," he breaks your reverie with a poor attempt to inject some levity in his voice. "What's on the Elena Gilbert to-do list today? Straighten your hair, eat your cereal, befriend a new vampire?"

You almost laugh in spite of yourself. He's good at that. "And what about your list?" you counter, forcing a grin. "Wear something black, sip on a coed, stage another jailbreak?"

"Touché," he smirks back, but there isn't much conviction behind it. "As I recall, I was promised the rest of the BarbieKlaus story," he tips his head slightly, raises an eyebrow.

"Only if you tell me what happened to _you_ yesterday, and what Mikael had to say," you bargain.

"Fair enough," Damon shrugs, as if he won't still try to keep some of the messier details from you. "You first."

You're going to tell him. Really, you are. But when you start to open your mouth, all you can think about is the horrible look of painful disbelief on Rebekah's face when you told her the truth about her brother, the startlingly fresh flutter of loss in Damon's eyes when you mentioned his mother, the turmoil and confusion in your own heart as it tries to navigate these dangerous waters.

It's an ambush that you can't keep at bay, and it all feels like far too much. You just need a moment, a _moment_ to gather your thoughts, to steel yourself for the day, to store up all your hope where you can reach for it when you really need it.

And you're _going_ to need it. Because the days aren't getting any easier, and this day could be one of the hardest of all.

"Can we just sit here for a minute, first?" you ask softly, head bowed. "Please?"

A pause, and agreement, "Okay." But as the silence overtakes you both, you feel his hand close once more around yours. It's a hesitant gesture, and you look up to find him watching you, unable to hide his concern. There's a wisdom in his eyes that doesn't usually show, but it seems close to the look that has always penetrated you with such inexplicable understanding.

You fall into him, then—tuck yourself against his shoulder before you can think better of it. Before any of the voices in the back of your mind—the voices that sound suspiciously like Caroline—can try to make you overthink this. Before you can ignore how reassuring—how _right_—it feels to have him slip his arm around you and hold you close.

You think you ought to thank him, but you're not sure where you'd begin, what you'd say. You're not even exactly sure _why_.

But maybe it has something to do with the calm that's spreading through your veins, the strength that's returning, the _hope_.

Maybe you won't lose it after all. Maybe hope just needs more than one person behind it. Maybe you just have to keep searching for it, and remember not to look for it alone.

Never alone.

So you wrap your fingers into his, somehow the easiest thing you've done in days. Weeks. You close your eyes for a moment as he presses the softest of kisses into your hair, breathe deep of him and here and now.

You sit there, together, and watch the sunrise fill the room with light.


End file.
